


In Its Cold Way, Coming Alive

by missmollyetc



Category: The Borgias
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they are to live, they all must learn, as she did, that fires must be banked to survive, not merely indulged but designed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Its Cold Way, Coming Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [borgiaskink meme prompt](http://borgiaskink.livejournal.com/1939.html?thread=280979#t280979):
> 
> "Cesare/Micheletto, Vanozza
> 
> Vanozza tries to understand what relationship her son has with his henchman. "

She notices Cesare's disquiet in the same manner with which she watched his first, stumbling steps, how he clings to Lucrezia 's hands, pretending it is she who needs aid in open spaces when it is his body that barely stills from trembling. How he stares at them all, as if he would crack their ribs and let spill their bloody secrets onto his father's floors. Vanozza is no fool, she has lived in the world upon which her children will make their mark, but Cesare...Cesare always looked not to the windows of his nursery, but into the corners, glaring at that which she could not see.

He is not mad, her boy, she is sure--God could not be so cruel--but he is acid and lime at once, burning himself even as he acts as bulwark against Juan's dissipation. The priesthood galls him, the power entices and yet constricts, as if the gifts Rodrigo lays at his feet are leashes tightening around his neck. It reminds her of the stable's yellow dog, the misfortunate one Cesare had favored as a younger man, before the night Juan's stallion had kicked in its narrow skull. How he had stood silent, staring, trembling, and let Lucrezia weep his tears for him, and how for a mad, reckless second she had feared for her child...and could not name which one. Rodrigo would speak to God and shout to all others, she knows, but Vanozza has kept her head and her tongue.

Better to wait, she thinks, and look to her own hearth before seeking out new soot in outside homes. There is much to do now, for her daughter, for her Rodrigo and the boys. Juan is like to bring the roof down upon them at any moment, and if they are to live, they all must learn, as she did, that fires must be banked to survive, not merely indulged but designed. Her Cesare's duties weigh heavy upon his brow now, and a mother's distraction might show her hand to no effect.

 

***

 

It is late, when Cesare comes to her in her salon, dressed in robes that just yesterday dwarfed his shoulders, but today... Vanozza sets aside the accounts, turning the papers over in her lap, and leans back on her bench. Her son stands before her, and it is a guilty moment before she realizes what she beholds: Cesare, at ease. Astonishment stills her tongue, but for once Cesare has bounded ahead, speaking on this matter and that, as light and charming a gallant as she has ever seen him. He sits at her side, close enough that his robes fall across her gown, and takes her hand, kissing her knuckles.

"Is it well with you, my lady?" he asks, and she brings her hand up to cup the line of his jaw.

"It is as well as ever," she says, inclining her head. "What brings my Cesare such joy?"

He blinks, drawing back from her hand. "Joy?" he echoes, and a smile that she has not seen in years does flit across his mouth. "Why, Mother, it is merely the reflected light of your company."

She laughs, letting her head fall back, and is suddenly so reminded of his father that she laughs the harder to keep from striking out. How they are each other's mirror at times, one out and one in. She looks away, pressing her smile against the backs of her fingers, and spies a shadow at her salon door, rough and staring, blue eyes like a curse. Laughter falls away, and Vanozza lets her hand drift to her lap.

"And what is this?" she asks, tilting her chin towards the shadow.

Cesare turns to follow her gaze, and his back straightens. His hands cover each other in his lap. "This?" he asks. "Oh, that is Micheletto, Mother."

His voice is as light as Juan's wishes to be, all care tightly leashed beneath indifference, but for the tension of his spine. ' _Oh, that is Micheletto, Mother_ ' he says, and she feels the lie as if it were her own tumbling pulse.

"Come here," he says, to the shadow. "Make your bow."

The man, Micheletto, steps over the threshold, and no farther. The candlelight dances across his red hair and dives into the harsh curves of his bearded face. Were she a younger, more foolish, girl, were she been anyone but Vanozza, she would have shrunk, but she has climbed far since those days. Instead, she nods to her son's Micheletto, and holds out her hand. Her fingers are steady; across his lap, her son's are not.

"You are my son's man?" she asks. "I do not recall you."

Micheletto looks to Cesare's nod before he approaches on silent feet. His steps remind her of a man she once knew, who never wore the same gloves twice, and carried nothing that had not more than one dangerous use. He reminds her of a time before Rodrigo, where certain lives could be led. Micheletto's bow is not smooth, but it is sufficient; his body obeys him down to the even puffs of his breath. His lips are thin against her knuckles, firm and dry, and beside her Cesare watches him as if he would disappear. 

"I am new, my lady," Micheletto says, drawing back to stand before them. "I have only lately come to serve your son."

She puts her palm atop Cesare's clasped hands, and feels him tremble. All the restlessness she once feared would shake her son apart now strains toward this man. Micheletto is still, but his eyes will not hold her's when there exists the sight at her left, and his mouth parts when Cesare leans forward. It is the smallest betrayal, the sight she once gambled her own life on, the night she took on Cesare's father. It is enough. She squeezes Cesare's hands tightly, stilling his trembling fingers; he must learn to stand as this man does, as little regarded as an unlit corner unless looked for, and then, the final star that overwhelms the sky. Vanozza smiles, and nods her head.

"You are most welcome."

**Author's Note:**

> I always liked this, but I also always thought it could be cleaned up (tense changes ahoy! Yeesh.) but time and fandom waits for no Molly, and I've only lately had a moment to turn back to this story. I'm glad it's posted now, though. :) Thank you to whoever left that prompt! I enjoyed it.


End file.
